


Of Puppies, Pens and Rainy Days

by Gimli_s_Pickaxe (orphan_account)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Fluff, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Gimli_s_Pickaxe
Summary: “And I swear his eyes were red, like he’d been crying – Arthur, did you make him cry?”There’s no hiding the flinch this time. Yes, Arthur made his boyfriend of a year cry. He is officially the worst human being on Earth.Gwen’s eyes blow unbelievably wide. “That’s like – like – kicking a puppy!” She hisses at Arthur, as if she can’t believe the nerve of him. “You pillock.”“He could basically kill me with a thought!” Arthur protests, indignant. “A puppy?”“Kicking a puppy,” Gwen mutters, again, before turning around and stalking towards the office, probably to tell everyone what a despicable human being Arthur is.Or: Arthur messes things up, and things are horrible, until they aren't. Featuring meddling knights, terrifying Morgana, Arthur pining so bad he could be a Christmas tree, and also, yes, puppies, pens and rainy days.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 291





	Of Puppies, Pens and Rainy Days

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, so all mistakes are mine.   
> Also, I am not British and this story hasn't been Britpicked, so if the characters happen to sound like some horribly butchered mix of British and American... 0)_0)
> 
> That said, please enjoy! :>

**Of Puppies, Pens and Rainy Days**

“Merlin’s looked awfully down nowadays,” Gwen comments when she meets him by the coffee machine during break. The contraption is probably older than Arthur himself, and spits out bitter-tasting black liquid that barely passes as coffee when it’s in a good mood. (Arthur has seen it in a bad mood. It’s a memory better left forgotten.) Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and they persist.

The familiar name sends a pang through Arthur’s chest, and he winces. Gwen, who is normally sweet but possesses the sense of a piranha when it comes to the wellbeing of her friends, narrows her eyes. “Something’s up, isn’t it?”

“No.” Arthur says. But he’s always been a horrible liar, and he knows it. Gwen’s eyes narrow further.

“And I swear his eyes were red, like he’d been crying – Arthur, _did you make him cry?_ ”

There’s no hiding the flinch this time. Yes, Arthur made his boyfriend of a year cry. He is officially the worst human being on Earth.

Gwen’s eyes blow unbelievably wide. “That’s like – like – kicking a puppy!” She hisses at Arthur, as if she can’t believe the nerve of him. “You pillock.”

“Ouch.” It’s the worst insult soft-spoken Gwen has ever directed at him, and it actually hurts, a little, however much he deserves it. Also, Merlin does look a bit like a puppy, with those large, laughing blue eyes of his and his adorable dimples, but the fact stands -

“He could basically kill me with a thought!” Arthur protests, indignant. “A puppy?”

“Kicking a puppy,” Gwen mutters, again, before turning around and stalking towards the office, probably to tell everyone what a despicable human being Arthur is. Arthur rubs his shoulder, into which Merlin had slammed the door with his magic.

Very hard.

Arthur sighs, and takes his coffee. It tastes like something left to rot in the bottom of the ocean for two years or so.

Well, maybe it’s poetic justice or something. His life doesn’t feel that much better at the moment.

It all started with the worst day of Arthur’s life.

A bumbling new intern had spilled a cup of coffee all over Arthur’s second-best suit, which, yes, he probably shouldn’t have worn to work, but he had woken up with a crick in his neck and had needed an ego-boost. Then, Agravaine had managed to misplace the paperwork Arthur had needed for the upcoming meeting, and when Arthur had stalked into the room, thoroughly exasperated and steaming, had had the nerve to set Arthur up as if _he_ had been the doddering fool.

Then Arthur’s favorite lunch place was closed for repairs, he stepped in a puddle on his way back to work, got a phone call from Uther reprimanding his ‘manners in front of his uncle and lack of business skills’, then his thumb drive had been hacked into and he had to spend the entire afternoon rewriting business reports.

Yes, officially Worst day of his life, capital letters included. So Arthur might be justified about forgetting his and Merlin’s first anniversary.

It doesn’t make him feel much better, though.

Arthur had been forced to stay in the office longer than usual to sort through the disastrous mess of his computer, but when he headed to his flat, eager to find solace in Merlin’s soft cotton shirts and warm smile, Merlin had been waiting for him with his arms crossed. And he was upset.

“Do you remember what day today is?” Merlin had asked, and Arthur had gaped at him. “Huh?”

“I made your favorite lasagna,” Merlin prompted, and Arthur had said, uncomprehending, “that’s – very nice of you.”

Merlin’s blue eyes were filling with something suspiciously like tears, and his voice trembled a little as he said, “Arthur, it’s our _first anniversary_. You promised you’d be home.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur had said, but to speak the truth, he really wasn’t. He should have been, and he knew that, but his day had been so horrid that all he wanted to do was dive into the covers and sleep a solid fourteen hours.

He didn’t have the energy to deal with Merlin, angry. He just – couldn’t.

“No, you aren’t.” Merlin had always been awfully perceptive about these things. Merlin’s magic crackled and filled the air, almost tangible, responding to Merlin’s emotions. “You aren’t.”

“Maybe.” Arthur ran a hand over his eyes, tired. “Can’t we just – talk about it later?”

“No,” Merlin was insistent. “Arthur, it’s about – you and me. Isn’t it more important than – I don’t know, work?”

Before Arthur could register it, all the ire of the day bubbled up in him, suffocating, a burning white-hot anger and frustration that had to lash out at something, anything.

“You wouldn’t know,” Arthur had snapped. “You don’t even have a real job.”

The last thing Arthur remembers is Merlin’s trembling lips as he hisses, “You fucking _prat_ ,” and slams the door in his face.

He supposes he deserved it.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Now, fumbling the lock that leads to the spacious but cold flat he hasn’t used in six months, he finds that he’s got a dozen new messages. He stumbles into the flat and scrolls through them.

More than half of them are from his friends.

‘I can’t believe you made Merlin cry’, declares Leon, disappointment apparent even through text. ‘It’s Merlin. _Merlin._ ’

Morgana is next. ‘You are my brother and I love you but you are a jerkface,’ it reads.

Will has issued a death threat to be carried out within the next week. Gwaine sent something with his signature _Princess_ and _Puppy-kicker_. Lancelot, always the noble one, is both admonishing and empathetic. Freya’s sent a single emoticon of a sad face, complete with a frown - ]]:-<.

Arthur can’t think of a single way to reply to any of them, so he simply tucks the phone back into his pocket and collapses into his conveniently-placed sofa. When he closes his eyes, a little dizzy from all that’s been going through his mind, he sees Merlin. Except his blue eyes aren’t laughing at all this time around, but cold and hard as flint, and his mouth is set in a firm, thin line. He looks angry. Accusing.

His friends think he’s a horrible human being and he probably is, Arthur thinks. What’s to stop Merlin from hating him too? Hell, he would hate himself too if he was Merlin.

He turns this way and that on the sofa to try to make it a bit more comfortable, but it is to no avail. Arthur doesn’t sleep for a while after that.

Arthur is tired of his friends giving him not-so-subtle nudges and admonishing looks.

“No thanks,” he snaps, at last, when Freya tries to gift him with chocolate and a thick tome of relationship advice. Even the title is insulting – _Boyfriend 101 For Dummies_. Gods, even Arthur could do better than that.

Freya gasps, wide eyes fluttering a little as if she’s holding back tears. Arthur feels terrible in an instant. Freya really is harmless and sweet, the sweetest girl Arthur knows, and making her cry would truly be like kicking a harmless kitten.

Also, unlike Merlin (who can be truly terrifying if the situation calls for it, like the time that armed robber had broken into their flat, and has the ability to end Arthur painfully in a thousand different ways starting with Smiting by Lightning) - Freya is, well, _Freya_.

She calls for him again, makes to grasp at his sleeve, but Arthur can’t help it anymore. He runs.

And runs, and runs, until he’s completely out of breath and an employee down by HR is eyeing him strangely. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to care.

He is so fucked up it’s not even funny.

The thing is, Arthur suffers every day, too.

Arthur hadn’t known how hopelessly enmeshed he had been with Merlin, with his magic, until it’s too late. The absence of that familiar tingle hurts way more than any physical wound ever could.

Arthur’s lunch, when he packs it for work, is stale and cold by the time it’s lunchtime at the office. Back when he’d lived with Merlin, it had always been steaming hot and fresh, as if it had been served straight from the kitchen. It’s the absence of Merlin’s thought, his gesture of affection, that hurts way more than Arthur’s wounded pride or tasteless lunch boxes. He turns towards skipping meals entirely or ordering in, just because it hurts too much.

His pen behaves horribly well, writing everything he directs it to, and it doesn’t scribble random messages from Merlin like _I luv u even if ur dollophead_ and _Know ur sleeping and drooling again_ _–_ _rise and shine, lazy daisy! <3_ into the margin of his paperwork when he’s not looking. It’s depressing, it hurts, and Arthur ends up ridding his office of pens entirely and begins typing every single message with Microsoft Word.

He must’ve lost his Merlin-patented good-luck charm, because it begins raining every single time he’s outside without an umbrella. Arthur figures he’s a horrible human being and deserves to get soaked and miserable, so he stays outside extra long just to be sure.

His schedule doesn’t chirp at him anymore. And really, he should welcome this blessed quiet and be thankful, or something, but he really isn’t.

He wants Merlin and his adorable ears and crazy grin and magical madness back in his life. He wants so much that it aches, but Arthur knows that it’s all his fault, that he’s hurt Merlin terribly, and he knows he doesn’t have the right to go barging into his life again.

Poor, sweet, innocent Merlin.

Gods. It’s really like Arthur kicked a puppy, isn’t it?

Except it’s worse. It’s Merlin, and Arthur doesn’t know if things will ever become alright again.

Arthur must really look a mess if it’s bad enough for Morgana to notice. (Or not – Arthur sometimes figures he doesn’t give her enough credit, because she can be awfully sharp when she wants to be. She just doesn’t care enough most of the time.)

On Friday night, Morgana storms his posh, silent, cold flat on stiletto heels that could double as weapons, and drags him into _the Rising Sun_.

Normally, the jovial air of the country-style pub would set Arthur humming as well. Today, though, it just makes him want to bury his head in his arms and never get back up again. Morgana tuts and shakes her head.

“I may have joked about getting rid of you once or twice,” she says, “but I didn’t mean for you to do the job for me. Goodness, Arthur, you look like _the Walking Dead._ ”

Arthur groans, incoherent.

Morgana pushes a pint of beer in front of him and force-feeds it to him.

When Arthur is so buzzed that he can barely remember his own name, Morgana gets right down to business.

“Look,” she says. “I don’t care what you did. Maybe you murdered his pet dog, or _something,_ but I refuse to believe that there’s anything that Merlin wouldn’t forgive you for. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, I’ve seen the way you look at him, and damn, you are _setting things right_ – or so gods help you, I will end you so that no one would even find your grave.”

The scary thing about Morgana is that Arthur has a niggling suspicion that she might really carry out that threat. But.

“I fucked up, Morgana,” Arthur whispers, brutally honest. He thinks his voice is trembling a little. “I fucked up so bad.”

“Nonsense.” Morgana intones, then upends the tankard into his mouth. Arthur gurgles, incoherent, and swallows before he suffocates. “You’re doing something, and I’ll make sure of it. Now bottoms up.”

The last thing Arthur remembers is the glint of Morgana’s green eyes in the bar’s muted lights, and thinking, _Oh, no, something very bad is going to happen._

Then, oblivion.

When Arthur comes to, he has a raging headache, and his stomach wants to escape through his windpipe. Arthur swallows, hard, and holds back a groan.

He feels scratchy fabric underneath his palms, wonderfully familiar and yet somewhat foreign, and he opens his eyes a crack.

A clutter of cauldrons and books and flowerpots loom around him, a merry fire crackling in the air and a scarred tomcat curled up around the rickety table legs that seem set to collapse any moment. Arthur blinks. It must be a hallucination.

He must have missed Merlin so much that he’s resorted to imagining his place.

Gods, but he is pathetic.

But the fabric of the sofa underneath him is so terribly real. Arthur remembers it, picking out the horrible, lurid flower-print cloth as a joke then being roped into re-upholstering the whole thing with Merlin, laughing all the while. And the crack in the hyacinth pot that Arthur had created when he’d stumbled over it while trying to make sick Merlin some early-morning porridge.

There’s so much memory here it _hurts_.

Then, before he knows it, a familiar pair of clear, blue eyes are peering into his face, and Arthur is so startled he leaps up and bangs his forehead into Merlin’s with a giant bang.

“Good morning to you too,” Merlin says, wryly. Arthur is so gobsmacked all he can manage is an incoherent, “Ugh.”

Arthur wants to run away. He knows Merlin is going to be angry at him, and he also knows he deserves it – Arthur Pendragon is not a coward by any means, but right now, all he wants to do is run far, far away and never come back. But he also wants to stay, here, in Merlin’s cozy, cluttered little flat that had once been theirs, and – he wants to make things right.

He does.

But his head is currently broadcasting a never-ending loop of _I don’t know what to do don’t know what to do what to do what to do what to do_ , and Arthur merely stares.

Then Merlin is tutting over him like the mother hen he really is, pressing a hand to Arthur’s forehead and giving him a disapproving look.

“Arthur, have you even eaten in the past week? You look like a prisoner of war who’s been starved a month. And maybe been sleep-deprived for good measure.”

“I, uh.” is Arthur’s articulate answer. He wants to say so much, wants to tell Merlin how sorry he is and how he’ll never let his temper get the better of him ever again, but his lips stay glued together. He swallows.

Merlin looks so – beautiful, in the wan morning light, hollows of his cheekbones dusted in shadow, pale and tall and lean and ethereal but also so _here_ , that Arthur can only look, and look, and look.

“It’s really annoying, you know,” Merlin says, conversational. “How I can’t ever stay mad at you for so long.”

“Huh?” Arthur asks, disbelieving. Is he really hearing this, or – he really doesn't think he could bear it if this moment is just a pigment of his imagination.

“Apparently, you’ve taken to typing out every bloody one of your notes. And skipping lunch. And going without umbrellas on rainy days.”

“Wait. How did you - ”

“Morgana. Gwen. Gwaine. And also a bunch of other people.”

It’s then that Arthur finally gathers his wits about him again, and he grasps at Merlin, almost desperate. He needs to get this out.

“Merlin, I know it – might not mean anything much, but I really, really wanted to say I was sorry. You’re right – I’m a headstrong prat, I let my mouth get away from myself sometimes, but that’s not an excuse. I just want to say I’m sorry. I - ”

“Shut up, you dollophead,” Merlin cuts him off, and crashes their mouths together in a kiss.

It’s nothing at all like those romance-novel kisses, all roses and bliss and white light. It’s clumsy, and messy, and Merlin’s long fingers are scrabbling about at his neck and their teeth clack and Merlin tastes like chocolate and cinnamon, and Arthur probably tastes like something crawled into his mouth and died, but – it’s _them,_ and it’s perfect.

A few weeks later, Arthur sits back in his office chair, stretching out the kinks in his neck, when his pen suddenly gives a happy jump and starts scribbling furiously on the top of his weekly report.

_EAT YOUR LUNCH Im watching I have my ways,_ it scrawls. It’s generally terribly messy and loopy and all-around hard to read, but it’s Merlin, and Arthur is hard-pressed to hold back a dopey grin.

Then, again – _Love you even if you're a clotpole sometimes_

_Hugs and kisses_

Arthur smiles haplessly, wondering halfheartedly if he would look too crazy if he started snogging his pen senseless because Merlin isn’t here right now and it’s the second best thing, and fingers the piece of paper tentatively.

Yes, he thinks, he’s going to go type out a new report right now.

Because there’s no way on Earth he’s turning this one in.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> :>


End file.
